


playlists - anderperry

by enbeeAlex



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Awkward Flirting, Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, Extended Metaphors, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Musical References, Mutual Pining, My Chemical Romance References, Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society) Lives, New York City, Oblivious, Playlist, Poetry, Post-Welton (Dead Poets Society), Roommates, Scott Pilgrim References, Todd Anderson/Neil Perry-centric, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbeeAlex/pseuds/enbeeAlex
Summary: basically just a fluffy anderperry fic because why not, neil doesn't die because i'm in denial, they stay in touch with prof. keating, and todd gets really into poetry
Relationships: Todd Anderson & Neil Perry, Todd Anderson/Neil Perry
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	1. ramblings of a lunatic

Todd-  
I had been sitting at my desk for ages. Something about the homework that needed to get done tonight just was not gripping me. I kept slipping in and out of reality, daydreaming.   
In all honesty, I was just thinking about Neil. He’d been home from the hospital for a few weeks now, and he was looking okay, about the same, honestly. Still jumpy and bright and excitable about anything and everything. He had gotten into another play, so he was at rehearsal a lot the past week. I was happy he had it, but it did get kind of lonely without him.   
Almost as if on cue, Neil burst through the door, wasting no time turning me around and gripping my shoulders.   
He smelled like a theatre. Almost like old violin rosin and books. It was nice. Not that I was thinking about it.   
“Toddsie!”  
I grin despite myself, “You’re excited.”  
“You will not believe the band I just found.”  
“Oh?”  
He fumbles for his phone and earbuds, “It’s easier if I just show you.”  
“Okay?”   
He hands me one of the earbuds and crouches next to me, holding his own.   
The music floods through my ear, and I only half-listen to it, getting lost mostly in Neil’s excitement and how much I loved every time he showed me his music.   
If you asked anyone else, they would tell you that he was a music snob. He wasn’t. He told everyone he listened to classical stuff, with Sinatra and Louis Armstrong, but I knew he listened to so much more. Pretty much every week he burst in, having discovered a new song or band.   
I loved that he shared them with me.   
The song he played was actually pretty good, and when it finished, he stood up and looked at me, almost expectantly, “Well?”  
“It was good! Who was that?”  
“They’re called Myriad, aren’t they great??”  
I grin again at his excitement, “They’re certainly very you.”  
“And what does that mean?”  
I shrug, “Nothing, it’s just, it’s something I can see you listening to.”  
He gives me a crooked smile, “I am choosing to take that as a compliment, Todd Anderson.”  
“As you should, because it was, Neil Perry. What’s with using my full name?”  
He flops on his bed, sighing, “I don’t know.”  
I nod, and turn back to my homework, trying to get more done than I had. It was quiet for a while, but it was comfortable. It was just Neil and I living in our own worlds for a bit, coexisting.   
It didn’t last for long, of course, we were always too interested in talking to each other.   
“Todd,” Neil said, startling the silence without warning.  
“Yes?” I didn’t look up from my homework, not sure what it was he was going to bring up.   
“Have you ever been in love?”  
He asked it so nonchalantly, but the question dug a hole in my stomach. The truth was, I was beginning to think I had, but I wasn’t allowed to think that. I wasn’t allowed to fall in love with Neil Perry, my roommate.   
It wasn’t so much that I was convinced he was straight, I wasn’t, I mean, I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t either, I just thought he was too good for me, heterosexual or not.   
“I uh, I don’t know. Why? Have you?”  
He turns on his side to look at me, propping himself up on his elbow, “I don’t know if I’m in love, or in love with the idea of being in love.”  
The hole in my stomach sunk deeper, as much as I loved talking to Neil about anything and everything, I wasn’t sure I could talk to him about someone he could potentially be in love with. Not that he didn’t have a right to fall in love, he deserved to, I just don’t know if I could handle hearing about it right now.   
But I swallowed all of that and nodded, “Whoever you might be in love with is lucky.”  
He laughed softly, “I wouldn’t say that.”  
The conversation ended there.   
I picked up my phone and turned my playlist on, putting both of my earbuds in, trying to drown out everything else, Neil, namely, and get my work done.   
I finished most of it, my last assignment half done, but not due for another week. I sat back in my chair, and let myself steal a glance at Neil, who had fallen asleep at some point over the last hour.   
I let my eyes linger on him a bit, getting greedy with the opportunity to study his face. The way his nose slanted. His cheekbones.  
I sighed, tearing my eyes away from him. I couldn’t look at Neil Perry like that. I wrote poetry for a while, extended metaphor upon extended metaphor for Neil Perry and me loving him. I’d been writing for a while, I’m not sure exactly how long, but at some point, Neil had woken up.   
“Back at work, Mr. Whitman?”  
I looked over at him, “What?”  
“Are you writing more of your famous poetry?” He gives me a look like it’s an obvious question, and I bring my notebook up to my chest.  
“Maybe.”  
He grins, “Can I see?”  
“And I wouldn’t call it famous- what?”  
“Can I see?”  
“I, well…”   
Before I can give him a real answer, he gets up and tries to take the notebook out of my hands. I try to clamp down on it, but he pulls it out of my hands before I can successfully. I leap out of my chair and chase him around the room.  
“Neil, not this again, give it back!”  
“Come on, just a verse~”  
“Neil, come on-”  
He jumps on the bed and I jump up after him, continuing to chase him around the room.  
He laughs, “I’m being chased by a famous poet!!”  
“Oh shut up.”  
I give up and sit on his bed, and he comes over and sits next to me, holding my notebook over his head.  
“I win!!”  
“Yeah, yeah, can I have it back now?”  
“After I read your new poem.”  
I groan, and he shushes me and clears his throat, starting to read the poetry,  
“Perhaps it is true that eyes are the window to the soul. Perhaps it is true that true love can be felt in seconds. Perhaps it is true that there is a perfect place for everyone.”  
I bury my face in my hands, “Neil-”  
He shushes me again, and keeps reading.   
"Perhaps all these things are true, but I only know for certain one truth, and that truth is you." He looks at me.  
I avoid his gaze.  
"Toddsie, are you writing a love poem?"  
"Maybe?"  
He gives me this lopsided grin and scans the rest of the poem, maybe looking for some indication of who the poem was about. There isn't. I was careful.  
He hands my notebook back to me, "They're very lucky."   
I pretend not to notice his use of a gender-neutral pronoun, instead of assuming it's for a girl, and try not to think about what it might mean, beyond what might appear at the surface, cause that's what I do.  
I shrug, "I mean, I doubt anyone would read it, the ramblings of a lunatic."  
Neil's face lights up, "You remembered that?"  
I grin, of course I did, Neil Perry, I remember everything you tell me, "Yeah, it was a good song, worth listening to again. Several times."  
He ruffles my hair, "I'm touched. But seriously, that was good. Not just the 'ramblings of a lunatic.' Poetry." He takes a breath, "Real poetry."  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say."   
"Well I do say it. Hey, listen to this song with me, will you?" He offers an earbud to me, and seconds later, the music is flowing into me like a wave of honey.   
When it's over, I give Neil his earbud back, one line from the song running over me repeatedly, sticking to my skin like the water vapour in the air when it's humid, 'sharing secrets, written on your hand, things I never had the chance to say to you.'   
He looks at me expectantly.   
"It was good. What's that one called?" I'm asking because more than the other one, this one has Neil written all over it, in blue sharpie. And I like to save those songs, to listen to again. And again. It's a piece of him I'm allowed to have.   
"Dizzy Romantics. It's by Gully Boys."   
"Cool." I make a mental note to add it to my playlist, which grows every time Neil comes home with new music.  
"Yeah." He leans against me and yawns, and I stiffen, hopefully not noticeably.  
"Tired?" I swallow hard, trying not to think about how close Neil is to me right now.   
He nods, and we sit there quietly, me well past when he falls asleep, afraid to disturb him.   
Oh, Neil Perry. If only you knew.


	2. so where do we begin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mostly just todd quietly pining for neil through a normal day in his own quiet, walt whitman way

I have three playlists for Neil. There’s one comprised solely of the songs he comes home excited about, bands he can’t stop mentioning, songs I know are his favourites, one for songs I love that remind me of him, specifically, things and feelings and memories, and one for songs that remind me of him in the abstract. He looks at my playlists sometimes, so I made the titles abstract. abstract in the sense constellations are abstract. the first one, “intangible presents,” the second, “a person made of sound,” and the third, “a constellation of feelings.” Neil always comments on how much he loves those names. It’s nice, but also makes a hole dig itself in my stomach. Neil is sitting on his bed now, attacking his new script with a highlighter. I’m laying opposite him, both my earbuds in, Sick of Losing Soulmates playing lightly. My eyes fall closed, and I fall asleep, Dodie’s voice floating in my ears.   
I don’t know how long I’m asleep, but I wake up to Neil shaking my shoulder a little.   
“Hi.” I say dumbly, my voice groggy.   
“Morning. I was just going to ask if you wanted to come to get takeout with me. A new place opened down the street, and I was going to go with a couple of people from the play, thought I’d invite you if you didn’t have any plans. I know some of the best poets are all isolated and such, but maybe just for some egg rolls and rice noodles?” He talks fast, like he’s nervous.   
“You want someone to talk to in case they start on something you can’t add to?” I ask it kindly, Neil and I talk like this sometimes, just honest with each other. Especially when half-asleep.   
“Yeah, pretty much. Say you’ll come?”  
“Well alright. I’m bringing my notebook, though.”   
He grins, “So delightful dinner company and the opportunity to see the famous Mr. Whitman at work? Absolutely. Come on, get dressed, we’re about to go.”   
I roll my eyes, “Gave me plenty of notice then, did we?”   
“You were asleep!”   
“And you clearly had no qualms waking me up.”   
“Oh come now, I gave you time to sleep.”   
“Yeah yeah. Alright, let’s go.”   
He tosses his green jumper at me, “Put this on, it’s cold.”  
I roll my eyes, but throw it on, not really complaining, it’s Neil’s jumper, and smells like him. Old violin rosin and books and spearmint. Ink and snow and coffee.   
Not that I spend time thinking about it.   
I follow him out, and we walk the block or so to the Chinese place that Neil was talking about, not talking much.   
I have my notebook in my pocket. Neil gave it to me for my last birthday, telling me that every good poet has a notebook with them at all times.   
He’d written a note in the front. I read it more times than I liked to admit.   
‘Toddsie,’ it read, ‘a penny for your thoughts and a notebook to keep them in. Keep it on you, for every fleeting thought you later regret losing. I can’t promise I won’t try to nick it, but you know it’s just not fair that you keep your interesting thoughts all to yourself. Happy birthday.   
Your biggest fan, Neil.’  
I know there’s little reason to read into it, but his words ring in my mind, his messy script playing before me when I close my eyes.   
“Todd?” Neil nudges me lightly with his elbow.  
I jolt back to reality, “Mm?”   
He smiles at me, “What were you thinking about?”  
You, I think to myself, I’m always thinking about you, Neil Perry.   
But I say, “Nothing.”   
He gives me a look, “Alright. We’re here, so, after you?”  
I smile a little, and walk in, my hand still on my notebook.  
I watch him greet his friends, his persona developing into a weird mash of who he is with me and who he is with pretty much everyone else. It’s weirdly endearing. I guessed when he asked me to come that he wouldn’t really need me there, but I love seeing him in his element, which is why I’d agreed. It makes me happy to see him happy.  
I grab my notebook out of my pocket, jotting down notes, which quickly turn into a broken poem.   
We leave about an hour later, and Neil sidles up to me on the way back.   
“What were you writing back there? Poetry, Mr. Whitman?”  
I shove him lightly, “Maybe.”  
“Oh? Pray tell?”  
“Nice try, Perry, not tonight.”  
“Oh come onnnn, Anderson!” He gives me a face, “Please?”  
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p.’ He frowns, and I put my earbuds in before he can protest further, the soft melody of Maybe a Love Song washing over me. I walk slightly ahead of him, the cold air playing on my skin but getting drowned out by the sound of Nataly Dawn’s voice.   
The walk back to our dorm only takes a few songs, likely helped by how fast we were walking, me in part to get to warmth, and also in part to avoid Neil asking me about my writing again.   
When we get back, I’ve shuffled through Would You Be So Kind, Absolutely Smitten (yes, okay, I like Dodie, sue me), and The Only Exception, with The Only Hope for Me is You playing somewhat softly as I unlock the door.   
I pause my music and take Neil’s jumper off, folding it neatly and setting it on my dresser, as he walks in and takes his scarf and coat off.   
“Were you really writing poetry back there, at the restaurant?” He asks suddenly, his eyes fixed on me.  
I nod a little, and continue to get ready for bed, unlacing my shoes as I perch on the edge of my mattress.   
“Can I hear something?” His voice is hopeful. Oh, Neil Perry, don’t ask me that again tonight, I might just show you.   
“It’s nothing good.”  
“Oh come on,” he says, stressing the word ‘on,’ “you’re basically a twenty-first century Walt Whitman.”  
“Why do you keep calling me Walt Whitman?” I say back, deflecting.  
“He reminds me of you.” He says it simply, as if I’m completely blind for not seeing it.   
“I don’t know how to take that, Perry.”  
“As a compliment, Anderson.” He retorts, smoothing his hair.   
I roll my eyes, and we settle into a comfortable quiet, me listening to my music again, and Neil still attacking his new script with a highlighter, occasionally making notes in pen.  
I’m writing in my notebook again, this time in depth about Neil’s eyes. It is not (stress the not) fair that he has gorgeous eyes on top of everything else. It’s like the universe wants me to die every time he looks at me.   
“Todd,” he says suddenly, “that poem from the other night-“  
I feel my face warm, he’s going to ask a question that will make it painfully obvious it’s him it’s about. Oh dear.   
“Yes?” I fight hard to keep the shakiness out of my voice, but I’m not sure that I win.   
“Will you ever tell me who it’s about?”  
My heart plummets. Neil if I could, I would, and I’d continue to write you poems.   
“Maybe,” I say instead, reaching over the turn out the light before he can say anything else, “goodnight, Neil. See you in the morning.”  
I hear him mumble a “night, Todd,” and I roll over, my back to him, the first notes of Cliché playing in my ears, my playlist still going.   
I wonder if Neil would still think so highly of my writing if he knew I wrote about him like every constellation in the sky, or every flower glowing with morning dew, or ever small bit of light that gets trapped by a raindrop.   
Before the bridge of the song, I’m asleep, Neil still on my mind, appearing in my dreams, where I can be bold enough to be honest.


	3. so will i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more todd pining with a cameo :)))

Neil’s gone before I wake up, either in class or about the city somewhere. Even if it’s cold out, nothing keeps Neil Perry still. I also think he got a phone call from his father last night, so it’s completely possible he just needed to get out. Which I can understand.  
I lie in bed for an extra five minutes, not wanting to get up and face the cold. It wasn’t that I wasn’t used to it, I just much prefer to be warm.   
When I finally get up, I get ready as quickly as I can, leaving little time to be idle and cold, having been pried from the warm embrace of my covers.  
It always strikes me how much Neil would love to hear me say things like that, because of how poetic they sound. He’s so enthusiastic about my poetry, one starts to wonder why he doesn’t just write any himself. Neil Perry is an artist on all accounts, he has the soul of one, but his outlet is acting, because it’s what drew him the most. It suits him well, actually. Being onstage.   
I put my playlist on shuffle as I mill around the dorm in my socked feet, not having to leave for class just yet. I make myself a toaster waffle, singing along to songs as they come on, first So Will I by Ben Platt, which always makes me think of Neil, especially when he says “You say, ‘What if I give up?’ I say, ‘That is one thing I'll never let you do,’ because whether he knows it or not, I’m not going to let Neil give up, because I can see how much he has to give the world.   
My eye catches on Neil’s green jumper, still folded on my dresser. I pull it on, I’m sure he won’t mind if I wear it another time, and then I’ll wash it tomorrow with the rest of my clothes and give it to him clean.   
I finish my breakfast and head to class, my earbuds in and my head down. I’m listening to this new EP from someone with only a couple songs, but it’s good, and I like it a lot.   
I might just have to tell Neil about it. I think he’d like the music.   
To a lot of people, my music seems really diverse, but it’s just because I pick songs mainly based on the lyrics, not the music, so sometimes I’ll listen to rock that sounds the same as indie pop if you just read the lyrics.   
I honestly don’t know how I found some of this stuff, but, walking with Bandaids by Gracie J Graham playing in my ears, I’m not mad at it.  
I walk to class with my hand on my notebook, just making sure it's there, I guess. I have an English class today, but that's it, so afterwards I’ll probably go to the library, or back to the dorm, whichever.   
Our assignment today is to find something mundane and write about the beauty in it. I know before my professor is done explaining what I’m going to write about.   
My pen races across the page in my notebook, I’m writing about Neil Perry. Of course I am. I don't use his name, that would be quite stupid on many merits. I just write.   
Most people fall for those with unearthly beauty, those who look like they've been somehow blessed with celestial looks, the world reveres people like that. You're not. You're beautiful, an earthly beautiful. Some people might hear that and think that to have earthly beauty is to be mundane, but that is the opposite case. You are beautiful the way the Aurora Borealis is beautiful, the way the first snowfall in Texas is beautiful in the sun. The way notes are beautiful as they startle the air. That's the beauty you have. It's completely earthly in nature, it's art. A gift from mother Nature to humanity. You look like art. You don't look ‘nice,’ per se, like some might say, you look like art, you make people feel things when they look at you. For me, it's safety, the feeling of immediate warmth you get when you walk into your house after being outside in the snow, the feeling in the morning after you wake up wrapped in your duvet, warm from sleep. That safe feeling, that's what I feel like when I look at you. 

I get through class writing, mostly other poems since I finish the assignment quickly.   
Neil’s sitting on my bed when I get back home, having stopped to get a coffee.   
He looks up at me as I walk in, “Hi.”   
“Hey. How was class?” I’m assuming he’d gone gone to class, unless he tells me otherwise. It’s not really my place to push him.   
“Fine. You?”  
“Fine,” I shrug, “we had to write poetry.”  
Instantly, his face lights up, “Can I-“  
“Sure.” I toss him the notebook, “It’s the bookmarked page.”  
He turns to it excitedly, his eyes scanning the page as quickly as they can. I watch him read my words, about him, not that he knows that, and smile an easy smile. A real Neil Perry smile.   
“You’re in love, Mr. Whitman.” He tosses the notebook back to me, and I catch it with no abundance of grace.  
“I- I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I pretend not to feel the terrible heat rising in my face, the pressure in my chest.   
He gives me a face, “‘You are beautiful the way the Aurora Borealis is beautiful,’ that… doesn’t scream ‘hopelessly in love’ to you?”  
I run a hand through my hair and look at my feet.   
“Todd~”  
I swallow, “Yeah?”  
“What aren’t you telling me?” He gets up and tries to get me to make eye contact with him, but I stubbornly refuse.   
I’m not telling you, Neil Perry, that I am terribly, hopelessly, poetically in the worst way, in love with you. And I can’t tell you that. I can’t ever tell you that, so don’t make me look you in your stupid eyes and lie to you.   
“Nothing,” I say instead, the word like lead in my mouth. I’m still looking at the toes of my shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.   
He hums, and flops on his bed, “Any plans for tonight then?”  
I perch on my mattress and take my shoes off, “No, you?”  
“Just thought I’d work on homework.”  
I nod, and lie down, tucking my hands behind my head. I don’t have anything but the rest of that assignment that isn’t due until next Friday.   
Reaching over to grab my phone and earbuds and put my playlist on shuffle, I stole a glance at Neil, who was staring quietly at the ceiling.   
“I can feel you looking at me, weirdo.” Neil’s voice is soft, joking, and he doesn’t look at me.   
“Just checking on you.” My voice is just as soft. It’s a half-lie, I just like looking at you Neil Perry, but I can’t say that.   
“Do I pass the inspection?” He laughs a little.  
Of course you do, Neil. On what earth would you not?   
“You look like you could do with a meal. Want to text Charlie to meet us at the diner a couple blocks over? He texted me earlier asking if we were free at all this week.”   
Neil props himself up on an elbow, “Yeah, sure. God it’s got to be at least three months since I talked to him. He went kinda AWOL for a while.”   
I nod, “Yeah, you know Charlie. Wonderfully random.”   
He gives me a look and then rolls over on his stomach and texts Charlie before looking at me again, “So, this mystery person you’re writing poems about.”   
I shake my head, “Nope.”   
“Oh come on!” He looks at me with big cow eyes, and I crack a little.   
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, “One question. That isn’t their name, if you know them, or anything that could potentially give it away.”   
He frowns, “That leaves barely anything!”   
I shrug coyly, “Take it or leave it, Perry.”  
He grins, “Okay, okay, lemme think.”  
I regret this already, but if I’m vague enough, he won’t suspect anything. He makes a trilling noise with his tongue, thinking.  
“Okay. What kind of music do they listen to?”  
I look at him, a little confused, “What?”  
“You heard me.”  
I blink, a little taken aback, “I did, but, that’s what you decided to go with?”   
He shrugs, “Yeah. You can tell a lot about a person by what they listen to. If this person has taste, they're good enough for you.”   
I laugh a little, “Good enough for me? No, I’m,” my breath hitches a bit, “I’m more worried about being good enough for them.”  
He frowns, “Well you shouldn’t be. You’re great. Now, music?”  
I laugh again, “Right, yes. They listen to a little bit of everything. And it’s never consistent. New stuff all time. Old stuff. A little all over the place.”   
Neil makes a contemplative face, “Sounds promising. I’ll make a final judgement when I meet them. Assuming I get to.”  
I shove him lightly, trying to be playful, “We’ll see.”   
It hurts to say, knowing it’s a lie. He can’t know. Even if there was the smallest possibility he could like me like that, Neil Perry was so far out of my league we weren’t even playing on the same field.  
His phone lights up and he grins, “C’mon we gotta go meet Charlie.”   
I shrug, “Alright. Let’s go.” Somewhere in the back of my mind it registers that I’m still wearing Neil’s green jumper. But he didn’t seem to notice, so it doesn’t feel important.   
We joke the whole way to the diner, Neil trying, without result, to get more out of me about the poems, me changing the subject to music and then letting him ramble about this new band he found (second thoughts, I make a mental note to listen to something later) which fills up the rest of the time.   
The diner is lit with the typical fluorescent lighting, oddly geometrically shaped sign out front. Neil and I come here sometimes for all nighters. It was Charlie’s favourite place last time he came, which was a while ago, since he’s spent the better part of the last year traipsing around Europe.   
Neil holds the door open for me and I go in, seeing Charlie immediately in the otherwise empty diner, leaning over the counter and obviously (badly) flirting with the cashier.   
“Charlie!” Neil waves from behind me and we pick a booth.


	4. an illustrated book about birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just charlie, neil, and todd being nerds

As soon as we sit down, Charlie relaxes into a pretty trademark Charles Dalton slouch, looking too cool to be the product of a suffocating private school, but all three of us know he was.   
I take my coat off and drape it over my chair, and Neil does the same before sitting down.  
Charlie scoffs a little, “Do you guys always act like your parents are secretly watching?”  
Neil rolls his eyes, “We’re just not the same level of heathen as you, Charlie.”  
Charlie clicks his tongue and taps his hand on the table, “You could be.”  
I run a hand through my hair nervously, “Charlie. How was Europe?”  
He looks at me and his eyes light up, “Fantastic. Art, women, it has everything. Poetrusic, Toddsie, poetrusic.”   
I laugh a little, “Sounds like your kind of place then.”  
He gives me a sly smile, “That it was, that it was.”   
Neil chuckles a little and starts to look over the menu, the only one of us that has, and the waitress Charlie was shamelessly flirting with when we came in walks over, asking what we’d like to drink. Charlie and Neil both get coffee, but I opt for an earl grey, just because I like the smell, and all this moment is really missing is a nice smell. It’s otherwise very much like either the opening or closing scene of a coming-of-age indie movie about friends. Like The Perks of Being a Wallflower or something.   
Neil leans over and makes a joke to me about Charlie in Europe that makes me choke on a sip of the glass of water I’d been brought, and he gives us both a once-over.   
“So,” Charlie folds his hands in front of him like some investment banker who’s about to tell you your loan got denied, “should I expect a joint Christmas present from you two?”  
I feel my face go three shades redder, struggling to, even mentally, form a coherent response, whereas Neil, always eloquent, asks Charlie to clarify before I can even open my mouth.   
He leans back further than I thought possible in his seat and shrugs, “Well I don’t know, you two are all chummy, and Todd over here is wearing your sweater, so how ‘bout it, Slick, got something to tell me?”  
I look at the table, which has been scratched in several places throughout the time it’s been in use, and pretend to be enthralled in the patterns of lines zig zagging around the surface of the table. I hear Neil telling Charlie that he let me borrow his sweater yesterday because I never have any warm clothes, and joking that he might get a joint Christmas present because we’re both broke. I sneak a glance at him, his lazy smile, teasing Charlie.   
Neil Perry always looks like he knows something you don’t, and it’s intoxicating.   
He finishes the rest of his coffee and gets up to get a refill, and I watch him go from under my arm, having moved to rest my head on the table and its manic and mismatched engravings.   
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Charlie’s voice is so soft I can barely hear it, but I do. I whip my head around to look at him.  
“I- well- I don’t know what-“  
“Cut the crap, Todd, you’re in love with him.”  
I hang my head in my hands, “Is it that obvious?”   
He grins his trademark lopsided grin, the one that looks like he’s set something on fire and is waiting for you to find it, “Only if you look for it.”   
I groan softly, “Don’t tell him. Please.”   
He chuckles softly, “Not for me to tell, Toddsie.”   
I hum a little and pull my notebook out of my pocket, jotting a line down about Neil, his effortless grace and how nice it sounds when he’s talking about something he loves and you can hear the passion rise in his voice. Something about being around Charlie, who I’m sure Neil learned excitement from, brought the picture of him rambling to mind.   
Charlie taps on my page, “What’s this?”  
I move my hand to cover the writing as much as I can, “A notebook. Neil gave it to me.” I think absently about how long it’s taking him to get a refill on his coffee, when Charlie steals the notebook from my hands.   
“H-Hey! Charlie! Give it back!” I reach for it, and he holds it back, flipping through the pages, his eyes scanning parts, and almost as if on cue, this is when Neil decides to return.  
“What’s going on over here?” His voice is light, full of jest, and he looks at me with his brown eyes and I lose the ability to speak for a moment.  
“Charlie- notebook- mine-“ I manage, trying desperately not to make eye contact with him.  
He sits down, “Ah, Charlie, did you take Mr. Whitman’s notebook?”  
Charlie peeks quizzically over the edge of the notebook, which he’s holding in front of his face, “‘Mr. Whitman’?”  
Neil gives him a look like a stern father, and while I appreciate that he’s trying to get my notebook back, it’s making a weird warm feeling spread in my chest, and I’m not sure I like it.   
“Oh! You mean Todd. Aw, that’s cute, you have nicknames! What’s yours, Neil?” He’s got a sly glint in eyes like he’s got an idea he wants to pitch for Neil’s nickname, and I want to shrink in my chair.   
“Charlie, the notebook.” His voice is still light, but the slightest edge of frustration is creeping into it, and I still sit quietly in my chair, slouching, as if I’m trying to disappear. Which I am.  
He thumbs through the pages, grinning madly, “Listen to this, ‘I’m normally okay with my own words, but these I had to borrow, because they’re perfect, ‘I just kind of feel like I’m on drugs when I’m with you,’ because I do. You’re my drug of choice, and you’re intoxicating.’” He gasps, “Quite the writer, you are.”  
Neil looks at me, “Is that from Scott Pilgrim?”  
I nod, “Can I have my notebook back please?”  
Charlie’s eyes scan the rest of the page, “‘Entertaining the idea of endless universes, endless possibilities, contentment is mine, just knowing that there is a version of us, somewhere, in one universe, in each other’s arms, and that gives me hope for this version of us.’ Geez, Todd-“  
Neil swipes for the notebook and gets it away from Charlie, who makes a miffed noise afterwards. He gives me a tight smile as he hands the notebook back to me, “Here.”   
I manage a small smile, and Charlie starts to talk about his week in Paris, and how he met the most enchanting people, and picked up just enough French to flirt, however badly.   
The rest of the meal is more or less uneventful, Charlie makes a few quips about Neil and me, usually some variant of telling us we’re not as discreet as we think and might as well just come out with it, Neil brushing every single one off, while I sink further and further in my chair, trying to change the subject. We eventually get onto the topic of Welton, high school, and Mr. Keating.   
We joke about Knox’s enchantment with Chris, and Charlie mentions offhand that he hasn’t changed much. Neither Neil or I have really kept touch with the rest of the group, aside from a text conversation every once in a while. Meeks and Pitts and I will talk more often than I do with the rest of them, usually about homework or school. They’d started dating as soon as we graduated, and everyone suspected that it’d been in the works for a while, but it was a good thing nonetheless. Meeks, ironically, made Pittsie a little less so. Meek, that is.   
They went to school in Boston, so sometimes I’d take a train down and see them over the weekend. Neil and Charlie were enthralled in a conversation, but I’d been zoned out for so long that I couldn’t follow it.   
I took out my notebook again and wrote a bit. Less of a poem and more a few narrative lines, about the way being so close but so far from Neil made my heart feel as if it bled.   
But, the last line read, it is for this reason that I write, as words, for the bleeding heart, an excellent tourniquet make.   
I look up at them, finding both of them looking at me intently, as if they’ve been watching me write the whole time. Charlie has an impish smile on his face, and I move my hand over the writing, trying to block it from their lines of sight.   
“Whatcha writing there?” Charlie goads, “Love letter?”  
I stammer, “No.”  
He shrugs, “If you say so.” Neil gets up and crosses over to the jukebox on the other side of the diner. He spends a minute or so standing in front of it and talking to the waitress, before choosing something and walking back as it reads his choice.   
He leans over to me, “They just got a bunch of newer stuff on records to put in there, cool, right?”  
I laugh a little, “Uh oh, what’d you pick?”  
He grins, “Just wait.”  
I give him a quizzical look when the opening riff of Plateau rings throughout the diner. Charlie furrows his eyebrows, “What the hell is this?”  
Neil jokingly puts his hand against his chest and gasps dramatically, “Charles. Don’t tell me you’ve not listened to Nirvana.”  
I roll my eyes, “You hadn’t either, until I showed you.”  
“And I’ve more than made up for that.”  
“Mmh.”   
Charlie makes a fake gagging noise, “Stop flirting.”


End file.
